I stand here
In front of the mirror.

I see me.
The me I hate.

My body covered in scars that I regret ever making.
The fat I tried to strave away and failed.

I must be the only person to fail at anorexia.
Does that make me stupid or strong?

Does it matter anyway?
It does to me.

I don't have a death wish,
I never did.

But the pain just wouldn't leave.
I over-came it.

But the scars remind me.
That I was weak.

I hate me for that,
I hate me for falling apart.

It's slowly happening again.
I no longer sleep.

What happened to everyone who was going to help me?
You were there for the fun, what about the hard time too?

I guess they never really cared.
My writing helps.

Is this considered poetry?
Or just rambling?

Are my thoughts meaningful?
Or just as worthless as me?

Did my parents ever care?
Even just for a second?

I don't give a fuck,
though I really do.

I care what they think
I wish I didn't.

I have a problem,
I need to talk...
I've been left to die.. alone...
I need a friend..


Hi!, I'm Angel. I have many problems, but will you be my friend and help me anyway???

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